


That One Queen Song You Like

by whoredini



Series: Freddie Mercury Has Seen Clay Naked [1]
Category: 13 Reasons Why (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor, Bisexuality, Clony - Freeform, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Head Injury, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Queen - Freeform, Short One Shot, Sickfic, Tarot, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 18:18:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12238152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoredini/pseuds/whoredini
Summary: Oh my God, I want to kiss Tony,Clay thought, and dropped his binder again.





	That One Queen Song You Like

1.

It started on a Tuesday, which was immediately suspect to Clay: nothing good ever came of Tuesdays. He dropped his binder on the way to Communications class because he was juggling ten different things, his own limbs among those ten different things, and before he could make even a cursory attempt to stop the binder from being kicked away into the throng, Tony had picked it up. Short, sturdy, mocha-skinned Tony with his ridiculous hair and his leather jacket and his army surplus boots and those hazel eyes and the sex car and oh my God, Clay thought, I am in love with Tony.

Tony was still holding Clay’s binder out to him while Clay grappled, open-mouthed and staring, with this realisation and its implications. Clay was sort of slow to romantic realisations in general, as everyone could attest, so _of course_ he had to have this one in the middle of a hallway full of students and an increasingly concerned Tony, and _of course_ he forgot to snap his mouth shut straight away, and _damn it all_ if it wasn’t his denim’s third wear sans wash that week.

“Am I gay?” Clay blurted, completely forgetting to take the binder. Students milled around them, as oblivious as only Liberty High students could be.

Tony sighed – that heaving, “Why me?” weight-of-the-world Mexican grandma sigh of his – and said, “Clay, we’ve talked about this. Liking Queen doesn’t make you gay. Just old school.”

He said this with a cute little smirk, the kind that melts away clothes and tolerance levels and years of bullshit and previously impenetrable emotional walls.

“Right.” Clay swallowed, blinked, adjusted the ten different things. He remembered _that_ conversation. Tony had been driving him home, the windows down with fall’s heat fading from the air, the radio on. Clay had asked him, “Does liking Queen make me gay?” in that half-second that he managed to forget that Tony _was actually gay_.

(Clay had felt like an idiot for six weeks, but Tony had just snorted and turned the radio louder, We Will Rock you vibrating from the sound system as they wound through suburban streets.)

“Right,” Clay said again and marched off without his binder. Only, he realised what he was doing a second after he started, spun around again and walked smack into Tony, who had been attempting to pursue him.

“Are you alright?” Tony helped hoard the ten different things safely back into the circle of Clay’s arms, dropping the binder on top of the lot.

“I’m fine,” Clay said. It was a reflex, and these days it was mostly true, except that now it might be a gay “fine” rather than a heterosexual “fine”.

“You gonna make it to class?” Tony was politely sceptical. Tony was politely _everything_ , Clay had noticed.

Clay considered. “Yes,” he decided.

“Then you’d better get going.” Tony nodded, exaggerated, to herd Clay in the proper direction, and the little smirk was back, and Clay wondered whether Tony would taste like coffee if he kissed him.

Oh my God, I want to kiss Tony, Clay thought, and dropped his binder again.

Tony stared at him for like seven seconds – seven was an estimate, Clay only started counting after three or four – and very slowly and carefully picked up the binder again. The herd of students around them had thinned; doors were closing, footsteps fading into the silence of the next period.

“I’m sorry,” Clay said. He had enough wherewithal left to recognise that he wasn’t apologising for dropping the binder. The binder was a metaphor. “It’s a metaphor,” he told Tony and took the binder again.

“Right,” Tony said. “Maybe I should drop you off after school, Clay, okay?”

“Maybe that would be for the best,” Clay conceded. He was man enough to concede these kinds of things.

“Get to class,” Tony warned him, mock-seriously, before grinning and walking off to his own.

Clay stared at the binder in his arms. He had drawn a bunny taking a selfie on it. An ironic portrait of his generation, he’d thought at the time, shading in a sparkle in the bunny’s eyes. Looking at it, Clay was startled to realise that the bunny was wearing combat boots.

Needless to say, Clay dropped the binder again.

 

2.

Communications class was sort of the emotional ground zero for Clay and the rest of the juniors, so Clay thought it was appropriate that _this_ would be the class he had to sit through choking back a nervous puke because his world-view had just sharply tilted. God forbid this happened in gym, or government, or English – it had to be communications class.

Mrs Bradley was in prime form. Unlike Mr Porter, she hadn’t lost her job when the school realised, yeah, they played a huge fucking part in Hannah’s suicide and coughed up a couple of million in a settlement that included a full apology for their actions and inactions. With their star quarterback sent to prison for multiple accounts of sexual assault, they had been _happy_ to apologise at that point, but it had been too little too late. The principal and vice-principal had both been sacked.

Mrs Bradley had taken this in stride, acting like she’d hoped this would happen all along. But she needn’t have tried so hard, Clay thought. The landscape at Liberty had changed. Marcus and Courtney had both transferred to other schools; Justin had been missing for weeks; Jessica’s father had moved them across the country; Bryce was in jail; Tyler had dropped out while he was on probation; Alex was dead. Zach and Sheri were still around and dating if the rumours were true, and Ryan still shadowed the halls with disdain and his (now underground) zine, but the rest of the cast in Hannah’s death was gone.

And he and Tony were still around.

Him and Tony.

“Mrs Bradley,” Clay blurted, interrupting her mid-sentence, “I need to--” But he’d gathered him and his ten things and sprinted from the room before she could get a word out.

Clay puked until his stomach decided it had purged itself of its crisis of identity. He watched the mess flush away, which was partly practical – you never knew when the toilet would back up and cough up its contents – before his eyes drifted to the cubicle’s walls. It had been painted over again, this time with a matte grey that was supposed to be graffiti resistant, but someone had already scratched a half-hearted “f u” at eye-level.

Seized with inspiration, Clay squabbled an old pen from his bag. Uncapping it, he scratched out “C hearts T” on the back of the cubicle’s door with the tip of the ballpoint. He was so engrossed in his vandalism he didn’t notice the pair of boots until they were squarely facing the opposite side of his door.

“I’m in here!” Clay warned, nervous.

“No shit,” said Skye’s voice. Clay couldn’t actually see her rolling her eyes but her tone strongly implied it.

Clay paused. “This _is_ the boy’s bathroom,” he ventured.

“Oh my _God_ , Clay, I _know_! Are you alright? You looked kinda pale in class. Tony said he was worried about you.”

Clay stared at his vandalism. “He texted you?”

“No, we’ve perfected telekinesis.”

“Telepathy,” Clay corrected, then sighed.

“There’s the Clay Jensen we know and love,” Skye snorted. She kicked the door, the thump echoing in the confined space. “If we’re skipping class I can think of a better place to do it.”

Clay dropped the pen back into his bag, gathered up his ten things, swung the door open and faced Skye. Her gaze was critical, but all she said was, “I can see what Tony meant,” before leading him from the bathroom.

Truancy being new to Clay, he let Skye lead him on a winding but near-invisible route down to the football field, a path free of stray faculty and other students, to a spot near the bleachers. A low wall, foliage and a statue blocked off a little niche of garden. A scatter of overturned crates served as seats.

“I’ve never seen this place,” Clay said, sitting down tentatively.

“Honour students so rarely do.” Skye dropped onto a crate and pulled out a Tupperware box. Clay expected a lot of things to come out of it, but not carrot sticks, which did. “It’s a good source of fibre,” Skye shrugged, in that world-weary way of hers.

“Even Goth girls need to stay regular,” Clay said, trying for a joke, but Skye merely raised her eyebrows.

“Sorry,” Clay muttered, rearranging his things.

“What is all that, anyway?” Skye wanted to know. “Did you forget your locker combination?”

Clay herded his things, defensive. “It’s just stuff I need.”

There were:

2 x arms

2 x legs

1 x grey backpack

1 x rolled up poster, which Clay had forgotten to hand in during Communications class

1 x Communications class binder

1 x Ryan’s rebirthed “illegal” zine, “Lieberty High”

1 x walkman, with a pair of headphones and a mixed tape courtesy of Tony

A John Green novel

“Please tell me you’re not into cancerlit now, it’s so _lame_.” Skye fished out another carrot stick. Her chewing was...determined.

“I’m not!” Clay objected, but they both knew it was a lie. “I’m not _into_ it, I just...read it from time to time. It’s...therapeutic, or something. It helps with...death.”

Skye’s chewing turned thoughtful. “I suppose I can see why the theme of star-crossed lovers wrenched apart by implacable death would appeal.”

Clay fidgeted. He hadn’t thought about it quite like that, but there it was. “Yeah.”

Skye fished out another carrot stick. “But Hannah wasn’t sick, Clay. She chose to do what she did and yeah, I get it, there were contributing factors. But she wasn’t at anyone’s mercy but her own.”

“Why do you have to be so mean about Hannah?” Clay was irritated; his identity revision halted by resent, at least temporarily. “Not everyone can be as—as _tough_ as you are, okay? That’s not a crime. That’s not a good enough reason to hate her.”

“Two things.” Skye was irritatingly level-headed. She ticked them off, carrot to fingertip. “One, I’m not tough, I’m desperate. Two, I don’t hate Hannah. She _frightens_ me. And she has to frighten me, otherwise...” Skye shrugged, but Clay remembered the day he’d exposed Skye’s wrists, her secrets.

Clay was silent for a moment. “Otherwise...” he grimaced. “Sorry.”

“You really are in a sad state.” Skye sighed. But Clay knew her well enough to recognise the concern under the gruff exterior. “What’s up? Cancer-lit, skipping class...don’t take this the wrong way, but I thought you were dealing.”

“No, I am. It’s just...this is something else.”

“Like?” prompted Skye.

Clay tweaked his ten things. “I...something’s changed. Something I thought I’d figured out. Or,” Clay revised, “something I never realised _needed_ figuring out.”

Skye swallowed down the last of her carrot stick. “And now you’re...?” She motioned to Clay and his slightly above average mess.

“Exactly.”

“Want me to read your cards?” She was already fishing out the velvet bag from her own backpack.

Clay hesitated. Tarot cards, really? But then he remembered the last time she’d read his cards. The one card had stuck with him. He didn’t know its name, but the bunch of swords hanging over the person’s head had struck a chord.

“Here. Shuffle and cut the deck like last time, thinking about your question.” While Clay awkwardly shuffled what may or may not have been a device of the occult, Skye snatched his Communications binder and balanced it on top of his bag, forming a makeshift table between the two of them. Talk about omens, Clay thought, before remembering he was supposed to be thinking about his question, which wasn’t a question so much as it was a person: Tony.

Clay finished shuffling and cutting and handed the deck back. Skye carefully pulled three cards from it, laying them face down in a row, before setting the other cards on top of their velvet container.

“Past,” Skye said and flipped over the first card. A red-skinned creature sat on a grotesque throne, holding chains attached to a man and a woman like dog collars. Clay could read the card’s title upside down: The Devil.

Well, that was what he got for mixing it up with the occult and being gay, Clay thought. He wasn’t religious – his mother was a lapsed Anglican and his father an agnostic with a flowery history of anarcho-paganism – but even _he_ could recognise that getting “The Devil” in a reading was probably a bad thing.

“Oh _relax_ ,” Skye scolded him. “The Devil. An oppressive situation. I’d say,” she added _sotte voce_  and flipped over the second card. “Present. Ah, The Hanged Man.”

“Oh my God,” Clay said, pushing his hands into his hair. A man hung cheerfully from a beam by his foot, his head halo’d.

“You’re having a realisation. It’s been hard-won, and it’s pretty major. Life changing, even.”

That left one card. “Future,” said Skye. Two naked people stood under the watchful eye of some kind of angelic being. “Ooh, The Lovers.”

“The Lovers?” Clay repeated, leaning forward so suddenly he bumped foreheads with Skye.

“Yes, Clay, The Lovers. Possibly a new relationship.”

“A relationship?” Clay picked up the card, inspecting it like it would yield names. It didn’t.

“Okay.” Skye took the card and scooped the pack together again. She dropped it into the velvet baggie and set it aside. “Maybe you should just tell me what’s going on.”

Eyebrows raised, she waited. Clay smoothed down his hair.

“I think,” he said, but that was no good: his brain wasn’t working. “I feel...” he tried instead, but emotions were terrifying. “It’s just--”

“Clay!” Skye warned.

Clay swallowed, considered, swallowed again. “Have you noticed how...how Tony kind of looks like he’d taste like cappuccino?”

Skye’s eyebrows inched even higher.

“Because I have.” Clay spoke in a rush. “Recently. Begun to notice...Tony. And his skin. And his _eyes_. And I’ve been thinking things. Like why he straightens his hair. I mean, he does straighten it, right? And then he gels it down. And I’ve been wondering: what if he didn’t do that? What if he just let it curl? All soft, like his eyes go sometimes. The rest of him can be so tough, you know? The workshop hands and the boots and the beating up guys who mess around with his sister. His hair should get to be soft, Skye.”

Skye schooled her facial expression with visible effort. It took a moment. Clay’s face burned with embarrassment the whole time.

“So you’re bisexual?” Skye said, first.

“That’s probably a fair estimation, I think.” He _had_ been into Hannah, Clay thought, so he wasn’t a six on the old Kinsey scale. He usually jerked off to girls...or had, until he’d found out the truth about that picture of Hannah and Courtney. Since Hannah’s suicide and the tapes, things in that department had mostly...ground to a halt. Until that morning, with the Communications binder, his id had been strictly about anger and food.

“And you’re into Tony?”

Clay nodded, close-lipped.

Skye suddenly battled a grin. “Who knew those gay rumours would turn out to be half-true.”

Clay was unimpressed. “Oh very funny.” He began to gather his ten things. His eyes were _not_ burning, they weren’t.

“Clay, no, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Skye halted his hands. “It’s just...” She settled down on her crate again, looking at him strangely. “I had no idea. My gaydar’s usually pretty good. I thought I knew you pretty well and then...surprise.” She made an exploding motion with her hands.

Clay ran his fingers through his hair. “If it’s any consolation, I only recently discovered this myself.”

They were silent for several minutes. The bell went in the distance; Clay had almost forgotten they were still at school.

“So what are we going to do about Tony?” Skye asked him.

Clay nursed misery. “There’s not much we _can_ do. He’s with Brad. I’m not...I won’t butt in.”

But Skye was speculative. “ _Is_ he with Brad? They’re very on again, off again, especially lately.”

“They are?” This was news to Clay.

“He doesn’t talk about it much.” Clay wondered whether Skye said this to make him feel better; in any case, it didn’t.

“I would’ve noticed if he mentioned anything,” Clay insisted. He wasn’t _that_ unobservant.

“It’s more about what he _doesn’t_ say.” Skye picked at her collection of armbands, staring into the middle distance. “Like, I’ll be talking about Ike and Tony’ll change the subject. I asked him about a movie Brad mentioned and the same thing happened. Things like that.”

Clay didn’t have great experiences with things unspoken and recognised that he was firmly out of his depth here.

“Wait—who’s Ike?” Clay realised.

Skye gave Clay a pitying look. “I have to go,” she said, gathering up her things.

“Wait, Skye--”

“I’ll keep my ear to the ground on the Tony and Brad thing.” She hefted her bag over her shoulder. “Try not to lose your shit in the meantime, won’t you, Clay?” And with that she stalked off, deftly skirting Coach Patrick by ducking behind a tree before continuing on like it hadn’t happened.

Clay’s stomach squiggled. It was an uncomfortable sensation. He realised with some surprise that it was nervous excitement – butterflies.

If Tony and Brad had broken up... Would Tony be interested in a relationship with him? They knew each other well, they hung out together often, Clay religiously observed Tony’s car rules (no eating, drinking, nail clipping, spilling, leaking or abrading the car), Clay had never once looked at Tony’s sister in a funny way, and Tony’s dad liked him. True, Clay was hardly an expert in relationships, but he thought the odds might well be a firm fifty-fifty, rather than what he had immediately assumed: zero.

It occurred to Clay that, if he and Tony started going out, and he fucked it up, Tony’s brothers would probably beat the crap out of him. But upon reflection, Clay Jensen found he liked his chances.

He scooped up his harem of personal items, intending to resume classes, bisexual fine. There was a little swagger in his step. And who could blame him? He might not die alone and unloved after all!

For once, Clay thought, things were looking up.

That was when the statue fell on him.

 

3.

Clay floated. He was weightless; a cloud in a summer sky. A breeze stirred him but he didn’t care. Let it rush his H20 along. Who was he to resist the wind, or the sun, or the sky?

“If you pee on this bed I’ll kick your ass,” someone said.

Clay blinked his eyes open around the same time he realised he _had_ eyes. He was in a room painted a sickly, sterile green that looked like cucumber semen. There were a lot of white cabinets, and the strong smell of antiseptic soured the air. A stern-looking man was doing something that involved stinging swabs that came away red.

“Murse Miles,” Clay gasped.

“Call me ‘murse’ again and I’ll kick your ass twice. Do you remember what happened?” Nurse Miles stuck a plaster on his forehead.

“I think Aphrodite fell on me.”

Nurse Miles eyed him over his half-moon glasses. He was black and skinny and weathered-looking, his hair grey.

“Aphrodite?” Nurse Miles repeated this like it was the latest item on a growing list of things that concerned him about the world.

“The Greek deity.” Clay sat up, the cot squealing beneath him. “You know, the nude one in the shell.” Clay gesticulated breasts but stopped. His head registered a lot of discomfort.

“Okay.” Nurse Miles was obviously resigning himself to Clay’s making sense. “It’s a good thing your friend found you. Might’ve laid there the whole day if he hadn’t, and your noodle would be even more cooked. You can go,” he added, attention on a clipboard. “If you pass out or hallucinate, go to the hospital. _Do not,_ ” he added, pointing at Clay, “come back here. Understand?”

“Yes sir,” Clay muttered, letting Nurse Miles herd him from the room. “Hey, wait, where’s my--”

But the sick bay door had already snapped shut.

“--stuff,” Clay finished.

“Clay?”

Clay wobbled around to find Tony straightening from the wall next to the sickbay door. His jacket was missing and his hair mussed.

How was he so hot, yet so small? Clay wondered. He was like the juice concentrate of hotness.

“Jesus Christ, Clay!” Tony appeared to be about equal parts angry and exasperated, surprising Clay from his erotic aside. “What are you smirking about? Are you alright? What the _hell_ happened?”

“You tell me,” Clay said. “One minute I was—walking? There was this statue” (Clay gesticulated breasts again without noticing) “and I’m pretty sure...” But what came after was a frightful blank.

“When you missed lunch I started looking around for you.” Tony was vibrating. “Skye said she’d seen you at the bleachers and that you were fine. But lo and behold!” Tony raked a hand through his hair. “There you are, out cold, forehead slashed open, next to a naked lady statue!”

Tony paced, taking deep breaths.

“It was Aphrodite,” Clay ventured into the silence, recalling.

Tony shot him a glare.

“Hey,” Clay lit up as this thought occurred to him, “do you think it’s a sign? Skye did a reading for me and I got The Lovers. Maybe--”

“You think the goddess of love falling on your head and nearly killing you is a good omen?” Tony was all eyebrows. “And don’t talk to me about those cards, man!” he added, pacing another circuit. “I told you, I’m Catholic.”

“I _did_ also get The Devil,” Clay conceded, his hopes that the universe was steering him and Tony together dampened. “Ow,” he added, the pain in his head spiking.

Tony muttered darkly in Spanish. “Come on, I’m taking you home. Your stuff,” he said, before Clay could get a word out, “is in my car.” He marched off.

Clay scrambled to follow, “I still have to hand in my--”

“I already gave Mrs Bradley the poster. It was due today.” Tony waited, impatient, for Clay to catch up. The hallways were deserted, the sun slanting in at a different angle through the windows. The school day was drawing to a close, the mid-afternoon warmth dissipating into coolness.

Clay cleared his throat, his face colouring. “Thanks.”

They were almost to the shiny red Mustang when something else occurred to Clay.

“You found me,” he said, tone questioning.

Tony was distracted with his keys. “Yeah.” He unlocked the passenger side door before moving around to the driver’s side.

Clay hesitated by the open door. “How did you get me from the bleachers to the sick bay?”

Tony raised his eyebrows at him over the roof of the car. “The Force, Clay,” Tony snorted. But that little smile flickered.

Clay settled into his seat, enjoying the familiar feel (warm, slightly abrasive, comfortable) of the car’s interior. It smelled like hair gel and leather and mint. It occurred to him that he was never more comfortable than he was when he was in here, Tony at the wheel, the tires singing against the tarmac, the radio on.

“You want to tell me what’s going on with you?” Tony asked, starting the Mustang. The vibrations of its V8 engine pricked up Clay’s spine and soothed his headache, which was inching along from “sharp and shooting” to “meaty throbbing”.

“Nothing’s going on,” Clay lied. Tony gave him a look. “Nothing I can tell you about, yet. But it’s not—bad, just...unexpected. I’m still processing.”

“Okay.” Tony was grudging. He eased the Mustang into the traffic that always congested around the school. “You want to tell me what’s up with Skye, then?” he wanted to know.

“Skye?” Clay repeated. “I don’t know that anything’s up... Hey, is she dating someone named Ike?”

Tony gave him a pitying look. “Since last summer.”

“Since... _last summer?_ ” Clay was confounded.

“He’s older, she’s kept it quiet.”

“Holy shit. Ike,” Clay said, testing out the name. He was thinking that he didn’t like the sound of it. “And you?” he added, trying for smooth and failing all the way.

“I’m not dating anyone named Ike, no.” Tony grinned.

“You and Skye should start a comedy duo.” There was a bit of a silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, so Clay ventured, “But seriously. Are you and Brad...? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Tony sniffed, didn’t make eye contact. “We made a mutual and amicable decision to split.”

“You did?” Clay said, excited. “I mean—sorry. Brad’s a nice guy.”

Tony gave him a look. “Yeah, he is.”

“What happened?” Clay’s voice was quiet. He felt like he was intruding on a sickbed. But friends talked about stuff like this, right? And he and Tony were friends; he’d asked.

Tony sighed and adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. “It was just...time, you know? Like how you know when something starts, and how something has ended...you just _know_.”

Clay digested this, but it wasn’t going well. “No, I don’t. I mean,” he amended, trying to make sense, “I sure never _seem_ to know when something begins or ends.”

Tony grinned again. “You’ll figure it out.” He took a hand off the steering wheel to clap Clay on the shoulder. Clay couldn’t help but drink in the weight of it.

“What if I don’t, though?” This was out before Clay had time to think about how much he’d regret saying it later. “What if my... _timer_ is broken, and I keep missing...appointments? because of it.”

Tony was sympathetic. “You won’t miss the appointments worth keeping.”

“Are you sure about that?” Clay was despondent.

“Yeah, I am. I’m a big believer in fate.”

“Yet you shot down my theory about Aphrodite,” Clay pointed out.

Tony pulled into the lot of a small supermarket and cut the engine. “I didn’t shoot it down, I just said it probably wasn’t a _good_ sign.”

Clay snorted but let it go.

“Do you need anything?” Tony patted his pockets.

“Maybe a new head, if they have those.” Clay knuckled his temples.

“I don’t think they stock them in your size,” Tony quipped, flashing a grin before he jogged into the store.

“Everyone’s a comedian today,” Clay muttered.

Tony wasn’t gone long. Returning, he deposited two bags on the back seat before getting in. Five minutes later they pulled up to Clay’s house.

To Clay’s surprise, Tony unloaded both grocery bags, making two trips to get everything – including Clay’s bike and his bag – inside, waving away Clay’s help. The house was cool and deserted. Clay’s dad had afternoon lectures and his mom was working late on a new case. He’d fully expected to spend the afternoon alone. Watching Tony, Clay suspected Tony knew this too and had made other plans.

“What’s all this?” he asked, inspecting the two carrier bags. Tony had carried them through to the kitchen, where the smell of coffee lingered from that morning.

“Ingredients,” Tony said. He moved around the kitchen like he lived there and not Clay; squirrelling out implements Clay didn’t know they owned, or where they kept them. “You missed lunch. You need to eat something before you take your pills.” He started cracking eggs into a bowl.

“I—if you have stuff to do at the garage, I understand, I don’t want to keep you...” Clay hedged. God, it would be just like Tony to stick around because he felt _sorry_ for Clay.

But Tony smiled at him. “I already let my dad know. Other than surprise that you’ve managed to sustain _yet another_ head injury, he didn’t object. Sit down. Let me take care—help you out. My omelettes are the shit.”

Clay stared at his sneakers. “You seem to do that a lot—take care of me.”

Tony paused over cracking another egg but shrugging he continued, not saying anything.

“Thank you. I never did thank you, properly,” Clay clarified, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter. “For the tapes. If you hadn’t been there... What I mean is, I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“It’s not a problem,” Tony said, blithe, avoiding eye contact, but then sighed and glanced up. “You helped me too you know. Really,” Tony insisted, when Clay frowned, sceptical. “Listening to those tapes the first time was terrible. So many shitty things, so many shitty _people_. And then you.” Tony motioned at him. “Clay Jensen. Tape six, side A. I’ve always known you, known _about_ you – your mom helped my dad once, I don’t know if you even remember that – but listening to Hannah talk about you... You kept her alive for a long time just by being you.”

Clay dropped his eyes. “I don’t--”

“And after I started spending time with you, I could see why that was.”

Clay glanced up to find Tony looking at him, whisk forgotten, and damn it all i _f his eyes weren’t melting Clay’s skin off his bones._

“Clay,” Tony said, quiet.

“Yeah?” Clay’s mouth had gone dry. So what if the whole kitchen and his supposed heterosexuality lay between them? All that could be done away within a moment.

“You look pale. Go sit down.” Tony motioned with the whisk, waiting until Clay had dazedly complied before resuming cooking.

Watching Tony work was interesting. He wasn’t self-conscious, not the way Clay would have felt had the situation been reversed and they’d been at Tony’s. It was like Tony was having a conversation with the food: murmuring to the eggs as he set them aside, warning the peppers before he sliced into them, their spicy scent filling the kitchen, softly praising the cheese as he grated it.

“Do you do a lot of cooking?” Clay asked, around his staring and drooling.

“Yeah, me and my sister have done most of the cooking since my ma had the accident.”

“You enjoy it.” There wasn’t really any doubt about that.

“I do.” Tony spared him a smile. “It reminds me of before, you know? My mom has always been this renowned cook – in our family, I mean. We’d have barbecues and the whole street would show up for her black bean salad. We once caught my aunt Dina rifling through her recipe books, looking for her cheese enchilada recipe. My dad forbade her our house for two years.”

Clay waited for the levity to fade to ask, “How old were you, when...?” Clay knew the basics about what happened, but it was all second-hand information: the quick walk to a neighbour’s house that turned into three months in the hospital; the drunk driver, the broken back, the paralysis and the wheelchair.

“I was twelve.” The pan spattered as Tony spooned the egg mixture into it before it settled into a steady sizzle.

“I’m sorry.” Clay shifted in his seat.

“Thanks. I never did thank _you_.” Tony glanced shyly at Clay before dropping his gaze. He prodded at the pan’s contents with a wooden spatula. “For doing what you did with Bryce. For fighting back. For being brave for Hannah. I...at the time I was so scared. I’ve always admired you for that.”

Clay blushed. “You don’t look like you’re scared, like ever,” he admitted.

“Oh, all the time.” Tony copped up to this easily enough. He fiddled with the stove’s knobs.

“Well, look at us, communicating emotions,” Clay joked, “Mrs Bradley would be so proud if she could see us now!” But Clay’s smile soured; he sighed. “I hate her goddamned class, Tony,” he said. That earned him a laugh.

Clay rustled up plates and, after a moment’s hesitation, set the table, clearing away the last of that morning’s breakfast things. Tony came over with the pan and divided the omelette in two before settling down. Clay didn’t know whether Tony would want to say grace, so he waited to take cues from him, but Tony merely dug in.

Clay took a bite. Part of him was worried that it would be terrible and that he’d have to pretend that it was good for Tony’s sake, but as soon as he started chewing all fear subsided and he wondered that he’d ever had the nerve to doubt Tony. The omelette was light and fluffy and filling, liberally spiced but without burning off the inside of his mouth. Clay made an involuntary sound of enjoyment that set Tony to grinning through the entire meal. To be fair, it didn’t last that long – Clay quickly polished his plate.

“I’m glad to see the head injury didn’t affect your appetite,” Tony said, around his second-last mouthful.

“I’m glad to see your tough guy image is not a gendered reflection of your mad cooking skills.” Clay sat back in his chair, hands on his stomach. Something occurred to Clay. “Where’s your jacket?” he wondered. Tony looked different without it; older and softer, less punk rock and more classic eighties.

Tony scraped together the last of his meal. “It’s in the trunk.” He kept his eyes on his plate.

Clay froze. “Oh no,” he realised, mortified.

Tony was sympathetic. “Don’t worry about it. You weren’t well and it wasn’t a lot.”

“ _I threw up on you?!”_ Clay sunk his head into his hands, tugging his fingers through his hair. “I’m _so_ sorry, I--”

“Clay, really, it’s no--”

“--have it dry cleaned or get you a new one--”

“Clay!” Tony actually hit the table, still clutching his fork. It rattled the plates, the bowl of fruit. Clay fell silent, face ablaze.

“Sorry,” he muttered again.

Tony set his cutlery down and pushed his plate away. He was looking at Clay; if Clay had to guess, it was with at least two parts exasperation, and one part something else. “You weren’t well,” he repeated. “Besides – if I had a choice between you puking on me and you choking to death, I’d sacrifice my jacket any time.”

Clay cringed but said nothing.

“Jesus, Clay.” Tony was suddenly angry again. It surprised Clay into looking at him. “You could have died. You could _actually have died._ Do you even realise that?”

“I’m fine.”

Tony was sceptical.

“I mean, I feel like shit, but I’m fine. Okay?” Clay waited, eyebrows raised.

Tony considered, then measured a sigh. “Okay,” he agreed.

They cleared up, rinsing off the plates and cutlery before packing them into the dishwasher. Tony made Clay drink something for his headache, watching him like a nurse in a mental hospital while he swallowed the tablets down with a drink of water. Clay stuck his tongue out at Tony afterwards, to prove he wasn’t hiding the medication under his tongue. Tony snorted and swatted at him with a dishcloth.

It had just gone three in the afternoon when they were done. “So hey, thanks for everything,” Clay started, in case Tony was looking for a clean exit. But Tony set his chin and crossed his arms, the world’s cutest gangster.

“What do you wanna do?” Tony looked at him, expectant.

Honestly, Clay wanted to lie down and feel sorry for himself and have an existential crisis. “Except lapse into a coma?” he asked.

“Except lapse into a coma,” Tony agreed.

“We have about three hours to kill before my dad gets home,” Clay mused, rifling his hair. “Oh, I know!”

Tony looked cautious. “Yeah?”

Clay felt himself smiling. “Have you ever watched The Lord of the Rings?”

 

4.

 _I’ve made a mistake._ Clay worried this thought like a dog with a bone for the first thirty minutes of the movie. _I should have taken it slower. Started with something less...extra. Eased Tony in._ Even Clay had to admit that Lord of the Rings was less “easing in” and more “ice bucket challenge” when it came to geekiness.

At first, Clay thought Tony was merely politely interested in the movie. He took in the Hobbits and Gandalf with tolerable ease, but Clay recognised his face from when Ryan talked about fashion. Clay privately thought of it as his “ham face”: glazed over. He wanted to suggest they watch something else, but by that point, they were already too far in.

But then Tony asked: “Where’s the crazy elf with the eyebrows?”

“Have you—you’ve watched The Hobbit movies?” Clay realised.

Tony rubbed the back of his neck, keeping his eyes mostly on the TV. “Saw a little of it at my cousin’s house once. Not a lot – we were helping with my uncle’s car...”

“That was Lee Pace. He’s not in this one. This is the sequel. They’re trying to get rid of the ring Bilbo Baggins stole in The Hobbit.”

“So it’s the same ring he stole from that grey thing?”

“Gollum. Yeah, same ring.”

Tony looked confused. “Okay...”

“It’s like this,” Clay said, adjusting his butt on the couch, and he was off, his headache forgotten: giving an overview of the trilogy, how the characters were related, filling in the blanks left by the movies. Tony was an attentive audience; plugging what he knew into what Clay said, asking questions, saying, “So that means--” a lot.

Clay didn’t realise how much he was talking until his throat started scratching and the noise from one of the last fight scenes distracted him from his monologue. To his embarrassment the movie was nearly finished, Sam following Frodo on his treacherous journey.

“Oh, I’m so--” Clay started to apologise, instantly flushing red, but Tony threw a pillow at him.

“You have _got_ to stop apologising for everything, Clay,” he said, very seriously.

“I didn’t mean to go on.” Clay had never wished he were cooler than in that moment, and he had never wished more fervently that the earth would swallow him whole. “It’s hardly everyone’s cup of tea.” He fiddled with the remote.

“That _metaphor_ isn’t everyone’s cup of tea,” Tony grinned. “Watching a friend talk about something they love...”

Oh great, Clay thought, he was just humouring him.

“How old were you when you read the books?” Tony wanted to know.

Clay hoped to God his voice sounded normal. He kept his eyes on the TV as he stopped the disc. “I was fourteen. My dad had them all, so.”

“Do you think I could borrow them sometime?”

Clay looked at Tony suspiciously, but it didn’t look like he was messing him around. “Sure, if you want to.”

Tony leaned forward and clapped him on the shoulder, hazel eyes pinning Clay down. “After that, of course I want to! I never realised the story--”

Afterwards, Clay didn’t know what it was that triggered it. Was it the way Tony _looked at him_ looked at him, or the heat of his presence, or the way he smelled? Or was it an accumulation of previous moments – strings and strings of them, all leading to this one decision, desperately made?

Or was it that he’d hit his head really hard less than four hours before?

“Tony, I think I’m bisexual,” Clay blurted out, catching Tony and his mid-sentence off-guard.

Tony broke off, frowning. “What?”

Clay swallowed. “I think I’m...bisexual,” he repeated, voice nary above a whisper.

Tony ducked his eyes. “I see,” he said and picked at his pants leg. “I mean, that’s--”

At that moment the front door opened in a rattle of keys and shoes. Clay’s dad herded himself and his ephemera noisily through the lobby. “Oh hey boys,” he said, spotting them, pausing in the living room doorway. He was clutching a leather briefcase in one hand, his laptop bag slung over the same shoulder. A paper-filled box rested awkwardly against his hip. His hair was asunder and his glasses askew, but he was as mild-mannered as ever.

“Let me help you with that.” Tony shot up before Clay could move, taking the box from Clay’s father to a surprised “Oh, thank you.” “A statue fell on Clay at school today,” Tony added, shooting Clay a look that flitted away before Clay could quite latch onto it.

“What? Clay?” His father frowned at him.

“I’m fine.” Clay cleared his throat, face flushing again as Tony disappeared with the box in the direction of the kitchen. He pushed himself off the couch. “It’s not—it doesn’t even hurt all that badly.”

“He was unconscious for almost an hour.” Tony reappeared, hands in his pockets. “The nurse told him to watch for signs of a concussion.”

“A statue?” Mr Jensen repeated, bemused.

“It was Aphrodite,” Tony said.

“Yikes, that’s not exactly the greatest omen, is it?” Mr Jensen chuckled.

“I’ve got to get going,” Tony said. He wasn’t making eye-contact with Clay.

“You’re welcome to stay for dinner,” Mr Jensen said, oblivious to the tension in the room. “I’m afraid his mother and I bored him with our scintillating talk of liberal politics at the table last night. I’m sure Clay would appreciate talking about--” (Clay’s dad squinted his eyes as if hoping a more teen-friendly topic would materialise) “--movies or something.”

Tony smiled, polite as ever. “Thank you, Mr Jensen, but I’ve got to get back. I’ll, um, see you at school tomorrow, okay Clay?”

Clay swallowed. “Yeah, I. Okay.”

With a half-smile, Tony left. Clay heard his car rumble to life, the headlights swiping over the front windows as he reversed before he drove off, going faster than he should have.

“Everything okay?” Clay’s dad asked. Clay was surprised to find him still standing there, a faint frown between his eyebrows.

“I’m fine,” he said faintly. “I just need to—take a shower or something.”

His dad looked sceptical, but he didn’t press him. “Okay. I’ll make a start on dinner. Come set the table when you’re done.”

Clay felt his way up the stairs to his bedroom, reeling. Closing his bedroom door behind him, he leaned against it for several moments, letting the full horror wash over him.

He’d told Tony he was bisexual, and he’d scarpered.

He’d told his _best friend_ he was bisexual, and he’d scarpered.

He’d told _the guy he had feelings for_ he was bisexual and the guy had scarpered.

Clay felt light-headed with dread. God, why was he so _shit_ at this? First Hannah, now Tony?

He stumbled over to his bed and sat down, hard, his guts churning. Rejection washed through him, hot and shameful. He buried his head in his hands. It was pounding again (still?), making little frosts of light burst against his eyelids.

Tony knew how Clay felt about him. That was the only explanation Clay could think of. Tony knew what Clay was about to admit – that he was into Tony – and had stopped Clay from embarrassing himself because Tony wasn’t interested. That was why he’d left so suddenly. He was _being nice_ to Clay.

 _Oh, God._ Somehow that was even worse than thinking that Tony was just being an asshole. And besides – when was Tony ever an asshole?

“Clay?”

Clay started. His father stood in his doorway, frowning.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I don’t mean to be harsh, but you look--”

“I’m fine!” Clay interrupted, surging to his feet. He intended to herd his father from his room and lock the door, to finally establish some boundaries in this house, this was _his_ room dammit, and he was entitled to his--

Clay got two steps until the room went funny. His headache crested, his vision blinked, once, twice--

 _Oh no,_ Clay thought, _not again._

And hurled.

 

5.

“I’m fine.”

“Oh honey, do you need some water? Matt, get him some water.”

“Mom, _I’m fine_.”

The ER lights – white and sterile as bleach – stung Clay’s eyes. They were on a bench in a bustling corridor, waiting for a doctor. His father sat next to him, looking strikingly out of place with his “Oxford don” vibe amid the sleek modernity of their local hospital. He held his crossed knees with clasped hands, looking around with interest. He at least didn’t seem to think that Clay was about to fall down dead.

His mother was another matter. She didn’t sit so much as she _hovered_ in her chair, ready to leap up at the first sign of Clay’s imminent expiration to alert a nurse. She’d already argued with two of them, resulting in an extra blood pressure check from a harried-looking matron. Clay was sure they were avoiding their stretch of corridor now. Clay felt guilty thinking this: his mother was honestly concerned. She looked a bit wild-eyed. Her mascara was caking and her skirt was creased.

“Do they only have one doctor on staff?” she asked no one in particular. “We’ve been here almost an hour. An hour!” she repeated. She made eye contact with an orderly who abruptly turned down another corridor. “I swear to God if they--”

“Lainie, sweetheart.” Clay’s father leaned past Clay to place a placating hand on one of her bouncing knees. “It’s only been a half hour. I’m sure we’ll see the doctor soon.”

“I still think you need to get Clay some water,” was her curt reply. Clay’s father sighed and withdrew his hand.

“I’ll find a water cooler, shall I?” he said, straightening from his seat and adjusting his glasses, no doubt pondering the existential dilemma presented by hospital architecture.

“Excellent idea,” Clay’s mother snapped.

“Mom!” Clay chastised her. Sometimes he couldn’t believe _they_ were the adults, Jesus.

She ran an aggravated hand over her face. “Sorry,” she said, after a second. Then to Clay’s dad: “Sorry.”

“I understand you’re worried,” he said. He gave them both a smile. “Back in a sec.”

“He’s going to get so, so lost,” Clay speculated. His headache, having crested spectacularly amid another geyser of vomit, had faded to a dull throb. He leant his head back against the wall. He was exhausted.

“Probably,” his mother conceded. She sat back, but her back was still ramrod straight. “This statue,” she said after a moment, a familiar steely glint in her eye, “you said it was free standing?”

“ _No_ \--”

“But before we left you said--”

“I mean _no_ , _no_ to whatever plan is hatching in there.” Clay indicated her noggin’. “Please, _please_ leave the school alone. It was my fault. We were skipping class, okay, and it’s not in an area we’re even supposed--”

“Okay!” Clay’s mom surrendered, palms up. “No need to get so worked up. But we _will_ be talking about the class skipping later,” she added, and Clay slumped afresh, hating his life. Surely a concussion should be enough to get him out of being grounded? You’d think so, wouldn’t you?

Clay’s dad returned five minutes later, carrying three bottled waters. He wasn’t alone. Brad of all people followed him, as impossibly cherubic and wise-looking and tall as always. Like a muscular doe, Clay thought.

“Hey Mrs Jensen, Clay,” he greeted. Introductions weren’t required. Brad had met his folks once before when he, Clay, Tony and Skye had gone to see a concert in SF.

“Hello, Brad,” Clay’s mother said, putting on what Clay thought of as her “my son’s friends are here” face: it toned down on the belligerence but upped the condescension like she was talking to kindergärtners. “We haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?”

Brad smiled his way through _that_ minefield. “I’m good thanks. Clay, I was sorry to hear about the accident. Your dad said a statue of Aphrodite fell on you?”

Clay felt suddenly very foolish. Just a few hours before he’d mentally compared himself to Brad and thought, Well, maybe. But with Brad there in person it was a totally different animal. If Justin Trudeau and an angel had a love child, Clay was pretty sure Brad would be the resulting progeny: he looked faintly Greek, with a chiselled face and sad, beckoning bedroom eyes. Clay would not at all be surprised to find his doppelgänger in some kind of classical artwork, probably sprawled amid an orgasm of lovers, all as beautiful as he.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Clay answered, trying to keep his tone light and devoid of the sudden soul-crushing self-hatred that had bubbled up when confronted with Brad’s perfection. “What brings you to the hospital?”

“Oh, I volunteer in the kids’ ward,” Brad said, to a toot of approval from Clay’s mom. Because yeah, _of course_ he did. Clay noticed the big tote bag Brad was carrying for the first time. It appeared to be--

“Yeah, they’re stuffed animals.” He pulled the bag open and sure enough, stuffed animals of various types, sizes and colours peeked out at them. “Hey, take this.” To Clay’s mortification, Brad plucked out a white bunny with floppy ears and handed it to him. “I noticed you’re always drawing bunnies.”

Clay’s mind immediately flashed to the bunny taking a selfie he’d drawn on the front of his Communications class binder—you know, _the one who turned out to be wearing Tony’s boots_ _._ Frightened, Clay searched Brad’s face for signs that he suspected or knew and was subtly throwing shade. But Brad was nothing but polite. Dumbly Clay took the bunny.

“Um, thanks.”

“I hope you feel better soon,” he said.

Brad left after a painful exchange of niceties with Parents Jensen, the hero the hospital needed by didn’t deserve. Clay’s parents were still talking about what an exemplary young man Brad was when the doctor finally arrived and ushered Clay into a brain scan and a battery of blood tests. It was an hour before they sat down for a consult, and then to the world’s most unsurprising news: a mild concussion, yada yada. Much to Clay’s mother’s relief he probably wouldn’t die. The doctor wanted to admit him for observation. She reassured his parents that it was just a precautionary measure.

“Unless,” she said, “either of you are up to waking Mr Jensen here up every hour?”

“Every hour?” said Clay’s father, startled.

“Maybe it _is_ better if he stays the night,” Clay’s mother agreed.

Clay would have kicked up more of a fuss and made more manly protestations or, failing that, adolescent antics had it not already been past eight at night. His head hurt, his body hurt, his heart hurt _and_ he was exhausted. A bed, any bed, sounded good at that point. So when a nurse showed them to a general ward and handed Clay hospital-issue pyjamas – those embarrassing gowns that fastened at the back – Clay surrendered easily.

“We’ll be here to pick you up first thing,” Clay’s mother promised, doing a lot of unnecessary patting of blankets and smoothing down of hair. She was probably feeling guilty for entrusting her only son to a bunch of strangers, Clay thought. Now that he was horizontal he had more energy to feel churlish.

“Try to get some sleep.” Clay’s dad gave him a fatherly shoulder squeeze.

Clay felt a lot of things watching them go. For an instant, with their bodies in profile against the bright light in the hallway outside the ward, they stopped being his parents and dissolved into two separate and distinct people. He noticed them the same way you sometimes notice strangers. They both looked suddenly older and more vulnerable. His mom was tiny.

Then the old guy in the next bed farted wetly and the spell was broken.

Clay turned on his side, facing the beige cabinet next to his bed. His phone lay there, 12% charge away from being dead, Brad’s bunny propped up next to it. The stuffed bunny was about as tall as his forearm, white with black button eyes and long floppy ears and a big fluffy tail. With Clay’s face squished into the pillow and drug-tainted saline dripping into his arm, the bunny looked a little like Tony.

The last thing Clay remembered was thinking “Tony Bunnila” and snorting to himself before falling asleep.

 

6.

“Aphrodite?”

Even as he said it Clay knew that wasn’t quite right, but there really was no mistaking the big-ass conch shell, the gentle lap of waves and the crunch of sand between his toes. That this scene was set in a deserted theme park and the conch shell was part of a water ride did not detract from the majesty of the man standing in the (admittedly fibreglass) shell. He was tall and slim, with a dark head of hair, a gloriously crafted moustache and finely shaped eyebrows. A profusion of chest hair peeked from the abundant gaps in his red get-up, which featured red feathers and a row of staring eyes as a matter of course.

“It’s okay, you can call me Freddie,” Aphrodite said.

“Freddie Mercury!” Clay gaped, feeling stupid even though he realised he must be dreaming. He also realised he had no idea what Freddie Mercury’s speaking voice sounded like and wondered how his brain was improvising this.

“D’you know you’re naked?” Mercury asked, with the disinterest only a master of rock could manage. He motioned at Clay, who looked down to indeed find himself totally and completely nude.

“This doesn’t usually happen to me,” Clay apologised, flushing.

“That’s what they _always_ say,” Mercury commented, _sotto vocce_ , inspecting his fingertips, then more loudly: “Well you’re here now, you might as well make a wish.”

“I wish I wasn’t starkers,” Clay muttered to himself, but Mercury raised his leonine head and said, “Very well then.”

“ _No!”_ Clay shouted, staggering a step closer and bumping up against the low concrete wall that separated the artificial lake from the sandy hardtop he was standing on. His junk jiggled against the top of his thigh. “I was only kidding! I don’t want to waste my wish on dream clothes!”

“Too late, lad,” Mercury said, waving a theatrical hand as if in a magic gesture.

“No, please, I--”

“ _\--I want to be naked, Freddie, I want to be naked!”_

“Clay! Clay, are you alright, man? _Clay!_ ”

Clay went from asleep to wide awake in what felt like 0.0001 seconds, startling conscious in time to hear the last of his shouting. Tony was bent over him, hand still on his shoulder from where he’d been trying to rouse him. Clay sat up, wide-eyed and confused. A collection of faces looked back at him, expressions ranging from wary (Tony) to amused (Clay’s gassy ward mate).

The ward was bright; blinking, Clay realised it must be morning. The room looked much friendlier in the daytime, and the other patients – sinister and invisible the previous night – were revealed to be your standard collection of sick men: three fat ones, two old ones, one with a shiny bald pate. Clay pulled the covers up to his chin, self-conscious. “Sorry,” he muttered.

The curiosity subsided. Tony pulled a chair up to Clay’s bed, spun it around and straddled it. He was still sans leather jacket – great job, Clay – but he’d substituted a worn denim one instead and looked a whole new old-school cool.

“Who’s Freddy?” Tony wanted to know, like the previous night’s awkwardness hadn’t happened.

Clay didn’t know what to do with his eyes, his face, his hands nor his arms. He crossed his arms one way, felt that might be too aggressive, relaxed the posture into a knot of hands, then crossed his arms again. He looked everywhere but Tony, which he realised only because Gas Man caught him ogling the foot sticking from his covers.

“Freddie Mercury,” Clay muttered, after an awkward moment.

“So that thing you asked me, in the car that one time... Have you had a thing for Mercury all this time?” Tony was amused.

“No!” Clay objected. “Look, it doesn’t make sense, but he was Aphrodite, and we were in this fairground and he said I could make a wish, only I was naked--”

“Been _there_ ,” muttered Gas Man, turning a page in the newspaper he was reading.

“Anyway.” Clay was blushing furiously. He was also, he found, furious. How dare Tony just _waltz_ into his convalescence looking like fudge and summer days, making jokes? “Why are you here, anyway? My parents will probably be here to pick me up anytime now.”

Clay looked hopefully to the ward door, desperate for an interruption, but none was forthcoming.

“You were finally getting some sleep so they left your stuff and phoned me to ask if I’d pick you up. I obliged them. Especially since...” Tony ducked his head to scratch at the back of his neck. “Look, I’m sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have rushed off like that.”

“Then why did you?” Clay asked. He fidgeted with his covers.

“I don’t know. I guess – it was kind of sudden.”

“Tell me about it,” muttered Clay, rankled.

“Listen, Clay, I hate to be _that_ friend.” Tony offered his hands in surrender. “But I have to ask: are you sure?” He grimaced and added, “What I mean is, did something happen?”

Why yes, Tony, Clay thought, irritated, your fucking _skin_ happened. If you wanted to take the broad view, really this was all Tony’s fault, and Clay thought he’d been very generous so far to not point it out.

“I’m pretty sure, yeah,” he said shortly, catching himself staring at Tony’s hands – compact and capable – before flushing and looking away.

“Ah.” Tony glanced at Clay’s bedside cabinet, the bed, the gassy man’s vitals monitor, before finally looking at Clay again. “That’s—I mean, I want you to be happy.”

But not with you, Clay thought, reflecting on the painful realisation he’d had the previous night: that Tony had guessed Clay’s feelings for him and wanted to let him down gently. Still, Tony was here now. At least he hadn’t lost his friend too.

Just potentially the love of his life but, you know. Whatever.

Clay shuffled off to the bathroom with his sports bag to shower and change. By the time he got back, Tony had struck up a car-themed conversation with Clay’s ward mates. They seemed far sorrier to see him go than they were Clay, but then Clay supposed he _had_ been the one shouting rude things in his sleep.

“Here, you don’t want to forget this.” Tony handed Clay the white bunny Brad had given him, letting him out of the ward ahead of him and then walking beside him as they made their way to the parking lot through the labyrinth of white corridors.

“Oh, thanks.” Clay cleared his throat and blushed again, thinking about the drawing of the bunny with Tony’s boots again. “I got it from Brad.”

“Brad was here.” Tony nodded to himself, which Clay thought was a slightly weird way to put it, but then Tony was master of his own ways.

“My dad ran into him last night and he came over to sympathise. Or see the love doomed.” At Tony’s frown, Clay explained that his father had told Brad about Aphrodite.

“You’re not love doomed,” said Tony. They emerged into the sunlight of the parking lot. It was a clear day, the sky stretching autumn-bright in all directions. Clay blinked against the glare, the dull ache behind his eyes flaring up momentarily before simmering down again.

“Pretty sure I am,” Clay sighed. He was watching Tony’s very fine butt as he loaded Clay’s bag into the trunk of the Mustang.

“Maybe the love _confused_ , but not doomed,” Tony grinned.

“Easy for you to say, Mr Popular,” Clay muttered as he let himself into the car.

“I heard that,” said Tony.

“You were supposed to.”

The car had warmed from its brief sit in the sun. Clay relaxed into the passenger seat, listening to Tony’s familiar rhythm as he prepped the car to go: the snap of his door, the slight whine of the window as Tony rolled it down two inches, the creak as he leaned forward in his seat, the jingle of the key in the ignition, the car’s first sleepy growls as it started, the click of his seatbelt.

Clay was reminded uncomfortably of Hannah: how physically close she’d been at The Crestmont, often beside him at the counter or scrubbing toilets in the next cubicle or cleaning up popcorn in the next aisle; and how far away she’d been even then. Tony was close enough to touch, but of course he _wasn’t_ , and Clay _couldn’t_. The feeling soured Clay’s stomach. Sadly it was a familiar ache.

They drove in silence. It took Clay a few intersections to realise they weren’t headed either for his house or school, but that they were cruising to Tony’s neighbourhood.

“Yeah, we’re going to my house,” Tony said. Clay realised Tony had been watching him from the corner of his eyes, waiting for it to sink in, and didn’t know how to feel about that. “Think you can tough it out in the ‘hood for a day?”

“I feel like you’re trying to lay claim to ‘hoodness that isn’t your due,” Clay remarked, mock-seriously.

Tony grinned. “And what does a suburb boy like yourself know about it?”

“Well, first of all, _you’re_ a suburb boy too.” Clay gave Tony a sage look. “Besides the car--”

“This car? This car that’s currently driving your convalescing ass around?”

“Yes, this car,” Clay pressed on, relieved that the conversation was back on familiar – and light – terms, “and your pre-vomit leather jacket, and those boots you’re always wearing--”

“I’m going to draw the line at any footwear criticism from a Converse man,” Tony said.

“--and your scary older siblings and the fact that you have ready access to spanners and hammers and--” (Clay had swiftly exhausted his knowledge of garage-related paraphernalia) “--stuff, _besides_ all that, you’re always on time for everything, your car and your boots are always shiny, you’re a three-point-what GPA again? You cook omelettes _and_ you like The Lord of the Rings.” Clay shrugged. “I hate to break it to you, Tony, but you’re not ‘ _hood_.”

“You did see me and my brothers beat that guy up that one time,” Tony reminded Clay, “or has the concussion knocked that memory into the wind?”

“Okay, but that only upgrades you to _hood lite_ ,” said Clay, “and that’s still, like, three levels away from proper ‘hoodness.”

Tony slowed the car and swung it into the drive in front of his house. It was empty of his dad and siblings’ cars (they were probably at the garage) and despite Tony’s warnings, it looked just like every other suburban bungalow Clay had ever seen.

“Maybe I’ll tell my brothers that some time,” Tony said, cutting the engine and looking at Clay. The engine popped and settled in the sudden stillness. “I’ll tell them my friend Clay Jensen says we’re ‘hood lite. Just like that.” His eyes twinkled, and Clay, not for the first time thought: whose eyes _do_ that?

“When they hear about me throwing up on your jacket they won’t come within a hundred feet of me,” Clay countered doggedly.

Tony snorted. “Come on, wise-ass, before you get shot in a drive-by shooting.”

Tony let them into his house. It was dark and quiet; the smell of burnt toast lingered in the air. Clay followed him through to the kitchen, where Tony pulled out a stool by the island and gestured Clay into it.

“Where’s your mom?” Clay wondered, sitting down. He’d been at Tony’s before, but most of Tony’s family had been home then, and the actual layout had been lost to a scrum of bodies. The kitchen was a spacious room, with dark cabinets, white-papered walls and cheerful yellow blinds. A big bowl of lemons stood in the middle of the granite tabletop. Everything was neat as a pin.

“She’s at the shop today doing the books.” Tony immediately started scavenging, moving with as much ease as he had at Clay’s house: cabinets squeaked open and clicked close, plates and cutlery and cookware clinked, the stove came to life with a quiet _whoosh_.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to do accounting away from a busy workshop?” Clay asked this mostly to distract himself from Tony’s thoughtful regard of a few red-ripe apples.

“She actually prefers the noise and the bustle. Plus she gets to keep an eye on everyone,” Tony added, “and boss them around.”

Clay smiled at that, thinking of his own mother.

“Oh shit,” he realised, pulling his phone from his pocket. Sure enough, the screen was blank. “Do you have--?”

“Third drawer,” Tony indicated, spraying a pan with non-stick.

The drawer was filled with various chargers, each looped in on itself and tied with a rubber band. Clay found one for his iPhone and plugged it in. His screen flickered to life and after a moment his home screen appeared. He had four missed calls and thirteen unread text messages.

“Oh yikes,” he grimaced.

“Sound weak,” Tony advised. “Maybe she’ll take pity.”

Clay felt a little self-conscious about calling his mom in front of Tony, but Tony didn’t appear to be paying him any mind. He dialled and waited, bracing himself for annoyance, then felt bad when his mother answered on the first ring and sounded nothing but concerned.

“Clay? Clay dear, are you alright? I tried calling you--”

“Sorry mom, my phone died,” Clay said quickly before she could board the SS Worried Sick again.

“How are you feeling? Are you home yet?”

“I’m fine, mom,” Clay reassured her. “I’m with Tony at his house. He’s, um, making breakfast.” Clay felt himself blush at that and was grateful that he was facing away from Tony.

“Oh, he’s such a thoughtful young man,” clucked Mrs Jensen, “I texted him this morning that you were in the hospital and he rushed right over. He offered to take you home when you woke up, isn’t that sweet? Said you looked so tired. I hope you don’t...”

But Clay had stopped listening. Had _Tony_ offered? That hadn’t been how Tony had told it. But why would he lie?

“...come home earlier if he can so you won’t be alone,” Clay’s mom was saying.

“It’s fine, mom,” Clay said, snapping back to the conversation, “dad doesn’t have to worry—I’m feeling much better, I think I’m out of danger.”

A sudden sizzle behind Clay made him jerk around. Tony was squeezing batter into a pan from an old sauce bottle with a languid, practised motion.

“You’re sure, sweetie?” Clay’s mom worried. “I can always take the day off and pick you up. Make you grandma’s chicken soup?”

Watching Tony work, Clay thought he might be in better hands than even Gram Ada’s supreme chicken soup.

“I’m sure,” Clay said.

They said their goodbyes. Clay glanced through his texts – most were from his mom, but there was one from Skye that read “???”. It had been sent less than ten minutes before. Clay considered answering her, then realised what a back-and-forth it would be and guiltily pushed his phone away.

“I don’t suppose you told Skye about me being in the hospital?” Clay wandered over to Tony and leant against the counter next to the stove. The batter smelled heavenly. Clay’s stomach groaned.

Tony flipped the flapjacks before he answered. “I haven’t had time yet. But maybe Brad will tell her, I know they chat.”

“They do?” Clay asked. He was thinking about the conversation he had had with her the previous day. She’d made it sound like she was getting all her Tony/Brad intel from _Tony_.

“As far as I know.” Tony glanced at him; a darting thing unlike him. “Why?”

“I didn’t realise,” Clay said honestly. “Does that bother you?” he wondered, then wished he hadn’t asked because to be honest, it looked a little like it did.

But Tony only said, “Nah, I know they’re friends.”

“I’d think your and her friendship supersedes hers and Brad’s,” remarked Clay.

Tony raised his eyebrows at him, questioning.

“You know.” Clay felt like a hurdler: one of those “normal people” hurdles was coming up and he didn’t know whether he could clear the jump. “Bros before hoes, that sort of thing.”

Tony smiled, but it was distracted. “I wouldn’t do that to her. We’re friends. I want her to be happy, you know? And if her...friendship with Brad makes her happy, then I’m happy.” He deposited three perfectly brown flapjacks on a plate and handed it to Clay, making eye contact with those beautiful brown lookers of his. “Condiments are on the counter.”

Clay took his plate. It kinda felt like Tony had been answering more than the question Clay had asked, but he didn’t know how to broach the subject without looking like a dumbass. Well, _more_ of a dumbass.

Besides, he had a half-stack of flapjacks waiting. Clay was only a man. He went to the counter and, after a brief and noisy root through nearby drawers, dug out a knife and fork. He chipped out a chunk of butter with the knife and set it to float and roam the stack as it melted, then drizzled maple syrup over it in messy, generous loops and zig-zags.

“Don’t you want some fruit with that? We have some apples and banana.” Tony motioned with the spatula he was holding.

“Why on earth would I want to ruin a perfectly good stack of flapjacks with fruit, healthy fruit?” Clay asked, mock-offended. But he was only semi-kidding. He sliced off a jagged corner of the stack with the edge of his fork and manoeuvred it – messily – into his mouth, not even bothering to sit down again to eat.

Sweet fullness exploded in his mouth. “Hnng,” he went.

“Good?” Tony wanted to know. He was smiling.

“Holy shit, Tony!” Clay said, only it sounded like, “Noly hit Mony!” on account of his stuffed mouth.

“Don’t choke and die, love doomed,” Tony warned, turning back to the stove.

Clay struggled down a swallow. “I thought you said--” But his phone chose that moment to start ringing. Smacking his lips, Clay went over to it, flinching away only a little when he saw the caller ID: Skye.

Clay pushed the phone away again, then turned it over for good measure. Shitty friend behaviour, his conscience took no time in telling him, but honestly? He was with Tony, and they were in this like _bubble_ , and soon it would burst and everything would go on as before – except that Clay would be pining uselessly for Tony.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” Tony asked, glancing around.

“Nah it’s—I’ll call back later.” Clay tried to smother his guilt in another bite of flapjack. Tony had turned around to stare at him, frowning.

“Wha’?” Clay asked, past a mouthful of food, nonplussed at the suddenly thunderous expression on Tony’s face.

“You don’t need to do that,” Tony told him, eyeing the phone. “Okay? What I said before about Skye – the same applies to you.”

Tony looked at him meaningfully – even pleadingly. Clay panicked.

“I don’t understand,” he said, looking between his phone and Tony. His phone at least had stopped ringing. Another hurdle had come up, fast, unexpected, and Clay suddenly had the feeling that these weren’t high school hurdles – he was in the emotional version of the _Olympics_ here, and his shoelaces were tied together and he was naked again and he was wearing a turkey mask.

Tony opened his mouth to say something – but the distinct smell of burning flapjack filled the air.

“Oh, for God’s--” He spun around and plucked the pan from the stove. Clay spotted a semi-charred collection of flapjacks before Tony went over to the sink and dumped them out, then threw the pan in after them. He leaned there. Clay could hear his breathing.

“Tony?” Clay took a few steps closer, then hesitated.

Tony exhaled, seemed to collect himself. He turned around and leaned against the sink, his arms crossed. He looked...embarrassed.

“I just wish you’d tell me,” Tony said with a grimace. He rubbed at his neck. “I know it’s probably none of my business, but I’d feel so much better about you and—about _it_ , I mean—if you just _told_ me. I really would be...okay with it.”

Clay was reminded vividly of Hannah for a second – more specifically, those moments they’d had, where Clay had been so confused about whether it really _was_ a moment that he’d missed it entirely and she’d stormed off, hurt and offended. After she’d killed herself, he had castigated himself over and over – still did, truth be told – for not just opening his _stupid_ mouth and talking past his _stupid_ self-consciousness.

This was another of those moments, and Clay realised he had two options here. He could avert. He could chuckle self-deprecatingly and pretend something wasn’t happening. Or he could confront it. He could open his stupid mouth and say something – _anything_. Tony, Clay realised with an uncharacteristic burst of intuition, would go along with either.

“I really, really want to tell you,” Clay said, “ _but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”_

Tony’s face pinched. Clay tried to rally: “I can always talk to Skye later, or tomorrow.” He motioned at his phone. “Maybe that makes me a shitty friend but I... The truth is I didn’t want to—look.” Clay’s heart was pounding. Oh shit. He was going to have to say it: he was going to confess his undying love. Hooboy.

“Skye?” Tony repeated, puzzled, before Clay could quite get air back into his lungs.

“Yes?” Clay confirmed on an exhale. It came out like a question.

“You mean the call...was that Skye?” Tony was actually getting angrier.

The penny dropped. “Who’d you think it was?” Clay asked.

Tony dragged a hand through his hair. “Brad,” he muttered.

“Why would _Brad_ be phoning me?” Clay was baffled.

Tony stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment. Apparently, he didn’t find what he was looking for, because he slumped back against the sink, his anger evaporating. Clay realised he was blushing. Tony _never_ blushed.

“I thought, with the bunny and...” Tony’s voice trailed off. He shifted his weight around, staring at his boots before he inhaled and looked at Clay. “Yesterday, when you asked about Brad. You seemed pretty happy that we’d split up. Then you tell me you’re bi. And then the bunny! I thought maybe you and Brad, I don’t know...”

But Tony clearly _did_ know.

“You think Brad and I...?” Clay repeated, reading the truth on Tony’s face: he _had_. “So when you left last night, it was because...because...” It took a moment, but Clay’s brain got the right pieces together and there was a clicking sound: Tony hadn’t left because he was trying to save face for Clay. Tony had left because he was _jealous._

But of who? The pit of Clay’s stomach plumbed new, startling depths. Was Tony jealous because he liked Clay _like that_ , the way Clay had recently discovered he liked him, or (and Clay had to admit this was by far the likelier option because come on, have you _seen_ Brad? Really seen him?) was Tony jealous because he, Tony, was still into Brad?

Tony, perhaps alarmed by Clay’s gaping, stepped up. “I have no right to be jealous, Clay, okay? I get that. Brad and I are done and... If you and he get together, if he makes you happy, I’m not gonna pretend it won’t hurt, but I--”

In the unlikely event that his life was a melodramatic teen drama on Netflix or Hulu, Clay thought, this would be _the_ moment: the music swelling, the camera focused on him as he decided whether to potentially risk everything a teenaged boy most feared – emotion, humiliation, a fear-erection – and suss out _who_ exactly Tony was jealous of in the quickest way: by kissing him. If Clay was honest with himself, he had to admit that he probably hadn’t woken up bisexual but two mornings ago. His feelings for Tony had started back with Hannah’s tapes. How exactly he didn’t know; there wasn’t a single instance he could point to and say, “There. There I fell for this cinnamon bun of a man with his sophisticated taste in music and his unsophisticated smile.”

 _This is the moment,_ Clay’s brain said, and as if in a dream, he started forward, Tony’s luscious face in his sights.

 _This is_ the _moment,_ Clay’s heart said, and he parted his lips, his focus narrowed down to the look of surprise on Tony’s face he was going to kiss right off.

 _Moment! Yass!_ Clay’s penis said, twitching in his underwear and making an excited little pre-emission, like someone clapping before everyone else joins in.

 _WHAT MOMENT???_ wondered Clay’s legs, and sent him sprawling after two steps.

“Clay!” Tony shoved away from the counter to kneel by him, face wiped of everything but concern.

“ _For God’s sake!”_ shouted Clay at the kitchen tile. He pushed himself roughly to his knees, swatting away Tony’s helping hands and then, surprising the fuck out of both of them, pushed Tony onto his back, clambered over him and kissed him soundly.

Tony hesitated for one long, frightful second under Clay’s onslaught, his body rigid, and if he’d pulled away then Clay was sure he would’ve died – just _died_ , right there. But Tony gasped something – Clay’s name, it sounded like – and his lips parted and they were so soft and his mouth so lovely and wet and the slide of his tongue so suddenly, deliciously _possessive_ that Clay was water everywhere he wasn’t fire.

 _Hurdle cleared, motherfucker,_ he thought savagely, very aware of his body pressing into Tony’s. Tony’s abs hardened as he reared up, reaching those capable, garage-toughened hands of his into Clay’s hair, pulling him closer, and hooboy Tony’s abs weren’t the _only_ hard thing between them. Clay melted into Tony, one hand hesitantly smoothing in under his shirt to feel that oh-so-wonderfully dusky skin of his, the other grasping into his hair and the wetness there...

Wait, what?

Clay pulled away from Tony with an unattractive sound that nonetheless diverted yet more blood to Regions: Nether. Tony’s eyes were bright and his lips wet. He was panting, his hair dishevelled, his usually calm face in beautiful disarray.

“You’re bleeding!” Clay’s fingertips were damp with redness that could only be blood.

“What?” Tony blinked.

Clay quickly clambered off him, the urgency of his erection dampened somewhat by the sudden instinctive knowledge that he’d concussed Tony in his over-enthusiasm. He manoeuvred Tony around and sure enough, the blood was a-flowing from a gash on the back of his head.

“Ow,” Tony said, touching the wound and staring in some surprise at the blood on his fingertips.

“I’m so sorry!” Clay said, already scrambling for the roll of kitchen towel he’d spotted earlier. He rolled off a few sheets, wadded them together and pressed it up to Tony’s head. Tony put his hand over Clay’s and tried for a smile. It came out woozy.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“You’re such a liar,” Clay told him. “C’mon.” He helped him to his feet.

“I didn’t hallucinate that kiss?” Tony asked.

“No, fantastical as it may have seemed,” Clay said, but something gushy softened the panic that had reared up in him. “Where are your keys? We’re going back to the hospital.”

“You’re overreacting,” Tony scoffed. But the wad of kitchen roll was soaking through smartly, and there was a lisp to Tony’s stance that told Clay he really, really wasn’t.

Clay found the Mustang’s keys and, after some manful resistance from Tony, had the stove off, the house locked, Tony in the car and himself behind the wheel. Adjusting the rear-view mirror and the seat (he was taller than Tony), Clay caught Tony looking at him with a strange expression on his face.

“What?” he asked, feeling self-conscious. To his relief, the Mustang took on his first try.

“You kissed me,” Tony said. He made it sound like a Eureka! moment.

“You remember that if I crash this car,” Clay said, an edge of hysteria to the sound. The blood may have drained out of his downtown area, but it was if not singing, then at least still humming.

“Won’t ever forget it,” Tony muttered and promptly passed out.

 

7.

It seemed an incongruous scene, the day clear and idyllic as people in navy scrubs worked with bored efficiency to strap a mostly limp Tony onto a gurney and wheel him into the hospital. By the time Clay got back from parking the Mustang, Tony had disappeared into the bowels of the ER where, according to the nurse behind the desk, he was being seen to by a doctor. She shoved a clipboard of forms under his nose and told Clay to call Tony’s next of kin.

Tony’s family arrived en masse just as Tony was wheeled out in a wheelchair, eliciting a brief scrum as two parents, three brothers, a sister and a prospective boyfriend all jostled around him. To Clay’s immense relief, Tony looked okay. He was a little pale and dishevelled (and missing a chunk of hair at the back where they’d put the stitches in), but lucid enough to loudly protest first the attention and affection and then the accusation of his family, who all spoke vehemently and at once.

“I’m alright, I’m alright!” he insisted, trying to clamber from the wheelchair, but his eldest brother – Vincent, if Clay remembered correctly – pushed him back into it.

 “Where’s your car?” he asked, taking up the handlebars and rolling him, amid the herd of his relatives, back out into the emergency bay Clay had first dropped him off at. He was taller than Tony but had that same lean build.

Tony looked at Clay, who had been trying to look apologetic and invisible simultaneously. They had all trundled to a stop on the curb.

Blushing like a schoolgirl under the sudden and unflinching collective regard of Family Padilla, Clay pointed to where he’d parked the Mustang under a scrubby bit of shade. “I didn’t know how long we’d be here,” he added, per apology.

Vincent was looking at Clay speculatively. “You were with Tony?”

“Tony picked Clay up from the hospital this morning,” Tony’s mother said. She was a thin woman with her dark hair cut into a fashionable bob.

“You were in hospital?” asked another of Tony’s brothers – Jack, maybe, though it could’ve been Emilio. They looked like twins and were the closest in age.

“A statue fell on him at school,” put in Emily, Tony’s sister, who by the by didn’t look like someone you’d need to beat up an errant boyfriend for – she looked like she could take care of it herself, thank you very much. She was taller than Clay and fit.

“It was Aphrodite,” Tony’s father told his family, with a “What can you do?” shrug.

There was a superstitious “Oooh!” from a passing orderly.

“Say, Tony,” said Vincent, his eyes still on Clay, and none too friendly, “what did you say happened again?”

Though the question was directed at Tony, everyone’s eyes swung back to Clay.

“Um,” went Clay. He had literally no idea if Tony was out to his family. They’d known Brad (they had all been over at his house a few times), but had they known Brad was Tony’s boyfriend?  
And besides, even if he were out to his family, it wasn’t to say that Tony would want them to know he’d been kissing Clay.

“I slipped and fell,” Tony said at the same time Clay, sticking to the Switzerland of half-truths, said, “I fell on him.”

They glanced at each other. Vincent raised his eyebrows.

“What we’re saying,” Tony said, speaking calmly, “was that there was a certain lack of coordination involved on both our parts.”

“Yes!” Clay said, then, “No,” when he caught Vincent’s eye. Clay wondered how hard Tony’s brothers hit. When would the ambush come? What dark night? “No, it was all my fault. I didn’t mean it and I’m sorry. Sorry,” he whispered to Tony, who, despite their dire situation, looked like he was battling a grin.

“Dios mío,” said Tony’s mother.

Jack or Emilio was shaking his head. “I did wonder.”

“You two were totalling boinking, weren’t you?” Emily said, speculative.

“WHAT?” Tony’s dad roared so suddenly Vincent nearly launched Tony off his wheelchair in surprise. Clay actually felt his balls retract, like they’d smelled a predator and were beating a hasty retreat.

“Arturo--” Tony’s mother placated, but Tony’s dad had rounded on Clay and his son.

“What God-forsaken things were you doing in _my_ house, under _my_ roof?” he demanded, jabbing a finger at them. Spittle flew. His eyes flashed. Clay wondered if he was going to wet himself. But seeing Tony’s lowered head made something inside Clay want to push back against the fear.

“Dad, you’re being--” started Emily, but Arturo Padilla merely rounded his jabbing finger on her.

“Not one word from you! Not a word!”

“Mr Padilla, I...” He rounded on Clay with surprising speed, making Clay’s breath disappear. But he _had_ been sorted into Gryffindor on Pottermore that one time. Pulling his shoulders back, he said, “I won’t have you speaking to Tony like that.”

“Oh shit,” chuckled Emilio/Jack.

Mr Padilla appeared to be inflating, but Clay ignored everything but the righteous pounding of his heart. “You don’t get to shout at him for being who he is,” Clay told Tony’s father, wishing he was more into the gay rights scene and actually knew what the Catholic counter-arguments to homosexuality were. “Tony is—he’s--he’s absolutely _perfect_ just the way he is, and I won’t have you shaming him. No!” Clay insisted, when Tony said, “Um, Clay,” and cleared his throat, “your father’s hatred can’t stop me from loving you!”

A moment of surprised silence followed this proclamation. Then Tony asked Clay, “You love me?” He was smiling that damn little smile of his.

Clay felt a yawning chasm of horror open at his feet. “No!” he said, back-peddling, then, “Yes!” when he caught Vincent’s eye again. “I mean... What I mean is--”

“What is this boy on about?” Mr Padilla asked the ensemble of his family.

“Clay, my dad’s actually been really supportive of my sexuality,” Tony said. “Premarital sex, though...” He shrugged.

“It’s a sin,” Mr Padilla said promptly, “and I won’t allow any fornication in my house. Do you,” he turned back to Clay and leaned in close, “understand what I’m saying, Mr Jensen?”

Clay swallowed. “Yes. Yes, sir.” He resisted a very bizarre urge to salute.

There was a titter of amusement from Tony’s family, but before any teasing could commence, the nurse from the ER desk came walking out, arms akimbo. She was black and belligerent. “Excuse me,” she said sarcastically when they turned to look at her, “I didn’t realise we were running a rest stop here. Unless any of you have any fresh injuries to see to, I suggest you move on!”

“Te daré nuevas heridas!” Emily fired back immediately; Jack/Emilio shot out a practised arm to stop her.

“No lo hagas, Emily!” Vincent interjected, locking a hand around her other harm.

“Yeah, no low haggis, Emily!” the nurse mimicked.

As one, Tony’s family moved toward the nurse. To her credit, she didn’t flinch when they started at her, an angry swarm of Spanish buzzing around them. Clay felt his balls peek from his scrotum, giving a little “Whoo-whee!” of relief that the family’sire wasn’t turned against him.

“Maybe you should take me home,” Tony suggested, that amused little smile still on his face. He rolled his wheelchair until his toes were almost pressing against Clay’s legs. He’d regained his composure, but there were two spots of very distracting colour on his cheeks.

Clay’s feelings were as reluctant to come back out as his testicles. But then, Tony wasn’t decrying him or avoiding eye contact or laughing at him or any of the hundred things Clay’s brain could have tortured him with, had he had any time to overthink the situation. Tony was just Tony. A little worse, and sexier, for wear, but just Tony.

Clay felt himself blushing. He didn’t know what would’ve happened if he hadn’t accidentally concussed his would-be lover. Probably they wouldn’t have done anything, but still. What if there’d been a Crucifix on the wall with Jesus staring down at them? Was he doing it now?  
Clay checked the sky nervously before he could catch himself.

“Clay?” Tony asked, sounding uncertain. Clay was horrified to realise he was doing to Tony exactly what he most feared someone doing to him.

“I can. I want to,” he clarified, all in a rush. “But I don’t—I mean, I don’t want to get you in trouble or anything. I’m sorry I—I _clambered_ all over you, I didn’t know about, you know.” He started to motion the physical act of love but stopped when another orderly came past, frowning at the puppet show.

“The sin of premarital sexual intercourse?” Tony asked, fighting a grin and losing.

Clay’s blush intensified by a factor of, roughly, a million. “Oh ha ha,” he said.

Tony sighed. “Clay Jensen, what are we going to do with you?”

If it had been prefaced with “Helmet” it could’ve been Hannah saying that, Clay thought. Clay knew he’d loved Hannah, but they’d never really been friends. It was different with Tony. The feeling inside him was based on a whole cache of memories: tyres whining on asphalt, Tony ankle-deep in a burbling stream on one of their hikes, his denims rolled up to reveal hairy (and somewhat scrawny) calves, a sardonic smile shared across a packed corridor, laughing at Skye’s psychedelic dance moves at a concert. Tony was Clay’s best friend. This was just more kindling on a fire that had been burning for a while.

Clay shrugged. Mock-grave he said, “No one has been able to figure that out yet.”

“Maybe we could start with the second Lord of the Rings movie,” Tony suggested.

“You’re really prepared to sit through another one?” Clay shook his head, feigning disappointment.

“Well, I was thinking that we could make-out during all the boring bits.” He reached up and, tentatively Clay thought, took one of Clay’s hands. The smile he flashed was downright criminal. Clay chuckled, squeezed it and let it drop so he could take up Vincent’s post.

“We’ll put on the director’s cut,” Clay said, tipping the wheelchair over a crack on the paving and trundling in the Mustang’s direction.

“Sounds promising,” Tony said.

“It’s more than four hours long,” Clay confided.

“This keeps getting better and better.” But Clay could tell he was smiling.

_The end._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you spot any typos or mistakes, please let me know, I'm flying sans beta. 
> 
> I'll probably write a smuttier sequel at some point, so subscribe if you'd like updates!
> 
> On Tumblr? I'm new [there](https://superbwhoredini.tumblr.com/). Give me a follow and I'll follow back :)


End file.
